


rest your bones with me

by rippedgloves



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Depression, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rippedgloves/pseuds/rippedgloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>louis watches harry feed the seagulls and takes a picture of his curls reflecting on the water. they have ice cream all tucked in their baltimore beanies and scarves and gloves, and harry takes out his sharpie right before the sun sets and scribbles ‘the monsters in your head’ down louis’ neck, and then he takes a picture, the orange sun washing over his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rest your bones with me

on sundays louis is always cross.  
he’ll have twice as much tea than on a normal day and it’ll take him three times longer to change out of his pajamas. harry sighs every saturday night before bed but never says anything and never complains.  
he sits across from louis in the morning and silently sips his coffee. he’ll wait until louis is done with breakfast then press himself against louis’ back and press his lips to the back of louis’ neck, right where his hairline ends. he’ll hum one of louis’ favorite classical songs, some chopin if it’s sunny or wagner if it rains, and wait for louis to snap out of his bad mood.

it doesn’t always happen. on his best days, louis is able to smile through gritted teeth and hold himself back so he doesn’t snap at harry at all. on his worst days, he’ll refuse to get dressed at all and will just sit on their couch until he loses it and starts yelling at harry, at the walls, at anything that’s within earshot.  
harry knows better than to get upset. he ignores the words, knows it’s not louis that’s saying them, and sits as close as he can to louis without touching him; giving him space. but that’s sundays, and they’ve still got the rest of the week.

louis manages to battle it most days; he fights himself and manages to get out of bed without harry putting a hand on his back; he manages to get through most days without breaking down, without his knees giving in and him crawling back to bed only an hour after waking up.  
it’s not easy.

there are the odd days where louis wakes up crying, and it’s just a downfall after that.  
some days he goes through the day without wavering, the smile on his face as genuine as can be; but then the night come and the monsters in his mind come crawling out, and harry has to hold him tight and whisper in his ear and kiss him softly until it passes.  
other times it doesn’t pass, and louis is in a state of hysteria that leaves him sleepless for a night or two. harry doesn’t sleep, either; just presses close to louis and writes words on his skin with his tongue and promises to never, ever let him go.  
most days, louis believes him.

  
harry doesn’t mind it.  
their friends don't get it, how he manages to deal with it all, but they don’t get him and louis, so it’s fine that they don’t understand.  
they don’t know what it’s like for them most days, the good days, when louis is all big eyes and loud laughs and witty jokes.  
they don’t know what it’s like when louis takes care of him instead, don’t know the way he kisses him and touches him early in the mornings right before the sun rises.  
they don’t hear the way louis talks to him late at night when it’s him who can’t sleep; when he misses his mom or is upset about nick or gets scared about their future or nostalgic about their past.  
it’s not that he takes care of louis; they take care of each other.

  
the good days outnumber the bad ones. harry keeps count in his head, likes to keep a little imaginary calendar there where he writes everything down, and considers it a win each month that goes by with less bad days than the one before.  
those are their little victories, ones that count more than the awards they once won and the platinum records they’ve got stacked up in a little room in the back of the house.

they never fight. harry ignores when louis yells at him (always on sundays) and louis tries his best not to get mad when harry shifts away from him at night or when he wakes up confused and calls out the wrong name.  
it takes a lot of work, but it’s the easiest thing they’ve ever done, being like this together.  
it’d be harder doing it any other way, because harry’s bones ache all day if he doesn’t sleep next to louis at night, and louis can’t bring himself to get out of bed until he’s kissed harry good morning (sometimes louis needs a little reminder that life is worth living.)

new york gets too loud for louis sometimes, so they leave.

he takes harry to boston on their first december and theygo ice skating three days in a row, because harry loves it there. they get recognized, but only one or two girls ask for pictures and they’re mainly left alone. louis hates it.  
there's a snow storm and they’re locked inside the hotel all night. they play board games in the lounge area and make jokes about what an old married couple they are until they notice all the old married couples surrounding them; louis drags them both back to their room and gets them both drunk on mini bar samples and they spend the rest of the night fucking.

it's a good trip, overall.

sometimes they go through weeks without leaving their apartment. it’s smaller than the one they had in london, but it still feels huge for them. they spend most of the time in their bedroom when they’re home, and harry makes breakfast and lunch and dinner in bed whenever they’re in and they feed each other and leave stains on the shirts and start kissing halfway through their meals. their food’s always cold when they go back to it.

they have all the time in the world, so they never rush. they have movie marathons and don’t sleep for nights in a row, and then spend another two days on their couch, napping to make up for it. they read a lot; harry likes to bake more than they can eat and then bring whatever is left over to the shelter down the street. louis goes with him every time and has to hide the proud grin that sneaks on his face when he sees how happy it makes harry.

It’s a tuesday in the spring that harry brings home an old 35mm camera one, and starts taking pictures.  
they're mostly of louis; drinking his tea, doing the laundry, flipping harry off. he likes to take a picture of the view from their apartment (central park looks lovely from an 11th floor) and some afternoons he drags louis around soho or down to brooklyn and takes pictures of the shops and the buildings and the odd street seller he finds interesting enough.

he develops them in a little shop down 38th, and the lady always smiles and never asks and winks at him when she hands him his pictures, and harry knows she will keep his secret. he doesn’t really go online that often to check, but he figures if the pictures were to end up somewhere they’d already have. he trusts her.  
they frame a lot of the pictures and keep others in albums under their coffee table or scattered around on shelves and on the floor of their bedroom. louis can’t work the focus to save his life (and he’ll insist that it’s because harry’s shitty old camera is broken, but they both know better) so there are at least twenty pictures of blurry eyes and blurry curls and sometimes the blurred edge of a hip or the curve of a spine. those are by far harry’s favorites.

the night before his birthday louis gets sad, and he sits on the couch with his knees to his chest and refuses to talk about it. harry drapes himself over louis’ back and kisses the spot right under his left ear until he feels louis relax against him. he doesn’t need to ask; he can see it in the way louis breathes in so his stomach won’t stick out and how he keeps smoothing his shirt down so it won’t show the little bump of his belly.

harry takes off his shirt and makes him rest on his back, dragging his lips all over the expanse of louis’ stomach, kissing around his navel and pressing his teeth down on his right hip.

“this is my favorite thing about you”  
he says

and louis breathes “what’s your least favorite?”

harry exhales and pulls himself up to rest on top of louis and leans down to kiss his bottom lip, then reaches an arm over to the coffee table and picks up a sharpie from the coffee table. he writes the words down across louis’ stomach, sits back to admire his work, licks his lips, and takes a picture.

_sometimes you give too much of yourself away._

that's how it starts.

louis takes the marker from him and sits up, leaning over to nuzzle his nose against harry’s jaw and whisper

“can’t write on your hair”

and harry laughs and kisses him again and takes another picture, just in case. then louis makes harry close his mouth and takes his time carefully writing the words in tiny handwriting on harry’s lips.

he doesn’t let harry look in the mirror when it’s done, but he makes sure the camera is in focus before he takes three shots. they kiss desperately for what feels like hours after that, and the ink transfers from harry to louis and later on to the fabric of their couch, and harry never finds out what it was that louis wrote on him.

harry gives louis socks for christmas and louis gets harry a comb and they laugh for hours while drinking eggnog and watching the same bit of love actually over again, because the airport scene makes harry cry.

they book plane tickets late that afternoon and end up rushing to the airport in the middle of the night because they didn’t double check the time. they leave from la guardia to baltimore without any luggage and spend a ridiculous amount of money buying everything they need at the airport.

harry doesn’t take off his ravens shirt for the first half of the trip and even once they get back home louis refuses to stop using his new orange and purple electric toothbrush.

baltimore is cold and they barely leave their hotel room except to go souvenir shopping; harry has to buy a suitcase to bring back all the city memorabilia they collect during their struts around.

louis gets blue on the last day of their trip. neither of them know what triggers it, but a wave of sadness hits right through him as he opens his eyes that they (and it’s not even a sunday) and his muscles ache too much and harry has to kiss him all over before he’s able to stand on his own feet.  
his eyes are unfocused and he doesn’t speak for the rest of the day, and they try to make the best of it but louis has to drag himself down the street and his eyes tear up at everything harry says.  
they go to the pier and sit there for hours and louis watches harry feed the seagulls and takes a picture of his curls reflecting on the water. they have ice cream all tucked in with their baltimore beanies and scarves and gloves and harry takes out his sharpie right before the sun sets and scribbles ‘the monsters in your head’ down louis’ neck, and takes a picture, the orange sun washing over his skin.

  
new years in new york city is loud and crazy and they go out for the first time in forever. zayn is in the city and they meet up at some club downtown, and no one mentions the blonde that’s clinging to his arm or asks about perrie the entire time. it’s a good night.

they get spotted on the way out and they’re bombed with questions, the paparazzi blocking their way to the car and the flashes blinding them. zayn takes on most of it and gives short answers and doesn’t waver once. there are mentions of perrie and the words cheater and bad husband are thrown around but zayn keeps a poker face as he answers. his blonde is nowhere to be seen.

louis clutches harry’s hand and doesn’t let go and someone somewhere makes a comment about how ironic it is that the closet boy is the one clinging to his boyfriend for protection now, and had it been a year before louis would have probably snapped at him, but instead he just squeezes harry’s hand and keeps his eyes on the floor until they’re safe inside the car.

their pictures are all over the internet the next day, but they hardly ever check twitter anymore, so they miss most of it. harry tweets ‘good morning, happy new year’ and a black and white picture of the view from their apartment.

louis sets all the clocks back when they wake up, pulls all the blinds down and reenacts the midnight count, kissing harry two seconds two early. they have champagne for lunch on January first and pretend it’s still december and time has stopped.

harry's twenty first birthday is celebrated big time. liam and ed both come and zayn and niall call on skype before they have cake and they all sing harry happy birthday. louis organized a party for all their closest friends, and they don’t really like parties anymore but it’s good to change things up from time to time, so they get drunk like they used to back in the day and they don’t even care when a paparazzi manages to sneak in and pictures of harry and louis sharing cake end up on some magazine.

harry kisses louis in front of everyone and louis pushes his face down on the cake and licks the icing off his lips and harry smiles like it’s the happiest day of his life. it's such a good night louis doesn’t even get sad when nick calls right before midnight, right before it’s over, not even when harry’s eyes get teary after he hangs up the phone.

when they get back to their apartment harry grabs the sharpie from the bedside table and writes _your insecurities_ down louis’ spine, his tongue travelling alongside the words until the bottom of his spine, and then farther down, until louis is gasping for air and has completely forgotten about nick at all. the picture features just louis’ back and the curve of his ass, and once it’s developed harry frames it and saves in on the first drawer of his bedside table.

they go to philadelphia once the spring sets. they eat nothing but cheese steak sandwiches for a week and rent a boat and try to sail it around the lake. louis falls on the water twice and ends up catching a cold from that, which means he’s cranky and has a runny nose the rest of the trip.  
he doesn’t get sad, though, not even when sunday comes and the sky is grey and his back aches because it’s humid and he never did fully recover from that one fall on stage years ago.

when they come home louis’ tummy is more pronounced than ever and he doesn’t let harry take his shirt off that night. harry wipes away the tears and smiles and nods and pushes inside louis while clutching to the fabric on his back.

  
they don’t really work anymore, not really. sometimes they do phone interviews for international magazines, for some western countries where there’s still a buzz around them, where the news of the split haven’t fully sunk.  
there are campaigns that they’re asked to do; charity parties they’re invited to, expecting that they’re names will bring in enough cash. harry agrees to do most of it, and louis goes along with it because he knows how much harry likes to help. he secretly thrives on it, the attention, now that they get to pick when and where and aren’t constantly mobbed by teenage girls. it's easier to be famous when you’re not really famous anymore.

they get called to do a campaign to support equality and same sex marriage and who knows what else. louis can’t quite believe that they’re still the need to do this things, that they still need to talk to people about this issues when it shouldn’t be a problem anymore.

it happens a lot, these days, that they’re contacted by the lgbt or some other organization fighting for equality to do some public thing, to speak at some event. it's kind of funny, louis thinks, that people think it’s his responsibility to talk about these things just because he’s out now, that people think he owes them this, that he has an obligation to talk about his sexuality like it’s everyone’s business. it’s funny because they never even let him come out in his own terms.

harry says yes to most of them and louis says no but he ends up going because harry does, anyway.

there's one event in particular that pisses louis off more than the rest. it's in memory of some kid who killed himself (and it’s a sunday,) and he and harry go on stage and have to say these rehearsed words about this poor teenage boy they didn’t even know and who’s life ended way too early, and it’s not fair. it's not fair that they tell him what to say and when to say it, it’s not fair that they make a big campaign over a boy’s death and advertise his sexuality like this, when it’s probably the last thing he ever wanted. it's not fair that there’s some asshole behind it all making money because society pushed a poor boy to kill himself because he though he wasn’t good enough for them.

he’s raging when he gets home, his hands curled into fists and his blood boiling. he rips harry’s suit off of him, pushes him on the kitchen table and kisses him hard, all teeth and nails and unapologetic. he grabs a sharpie from the table and writes all over harry’s thighs

_you try too hard too please everyone_

and then he fucks him hard without hardly any prep and rejoices when harry comes right away, too overwhelmed by everything

the ink is blurry and smeared with come on harry’s thigh by the time louis is done and manages to fetch the camera and take the picture, and he hopes with all his heart that this one doen’t come out of focus.

they take another trip on easter.

florida is too hot for them; they walk around the city in swimming trunks and hawaian shirts and too big sunglasses and they go to all the touristic spots and take a million pictures.  
louis tweets a picture of harry with a tortoise on key west and a little group of fans follows them all afternoon after that. they go to the beach and harry watches louis surf and takes pictures of nothing in particular and it’s a good trip.

they have a bad week in august. it's too hot and it makes louis cranky and harry homesick and they barely speak to each other for days.

they sleep in separate rooms, except they don’t really sleep at all, and their eyes are red rimmed and tired in the mornings and they have breakfast silently for three days in a row until the fourth morning louis simply doesn’t get out of bed.

he phones his mom a lot and texts niall and even considers calling eleanor once or twice, but he doesn’t, because that feels like betraying harry. he writes some, and reads some more, and spends the days going through the pictures of harry he’s got printed and saved in a box.

he reads _your fake laugh_ and _you take everything too hard_ and you _expect too much from everyone_ and his eyes get teary because they’ve been writing what they dislike about each other for so long that he can’t remember the last time they told each other what they do like.

  
he scribbles _your eyes_ on a picture of harry’s profile that someone took the first time they toured australia, then writes _you see the good in everyone_ on harry’s forehead on a picture of harry and lux back when she was a baby and harry was devoted to her

then _how full of love you are_

and _the way you make me feel_

and _how you don’t get tired of me_

and _that you’re not ashamed to cry_

and _that you make me a better person_

he wakes up on a sunday and the bed is too cold and his hands reach for harry and find an empty space, and he snaps out of it. there’s a dead weight on his shoulders trying to keep him anchored in bed, and a little voice in his head telling him not to get up, but his body aches for harry, so he gets moving.

he picks up all the pictures that are scattered around on the sheets and carries them all the way to (his and) harry’s bedroom.

“because there are things i like about you, too” he says and drops on the bed.

harry reads through the pictures and his eyes get teary and louis can’t help rolling his eyes at how ironic it is. they kiss for the first time in days and the knot on louis stomach melts and he feels his insides disentangling, and for the first time since they left england fourteen months before, he thinks things are going to be okay.

he feels the sharpie on his skin as harry moves behind him, and there are words traced across his shoulder blades, and then down the back of his arms, and across his collarbone. there are words on his forearms and across his chest, on his collarbones and down his thighs, and he can’t read them all and harry’s hovering over his body and blocking the view, but he catches words like _gorgeous_ and _loving_ and _care more about others than yourself_ and _always willing to help_ and his heart swells in his chest.

he looks down on his chest and finds the words _sundays_ written over his heart, and he raises an eyebrow at harry, who just smiles and presses a kiss there.

“today’s sunday,” louis says, nodding, but harry shakes his head and whispers,

“every sunday.”


End file.
